


March

by Mike_H



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23041294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mike_H/pseuds/Mike_H
Relationships: Yamamoto Takeshi & Xanxus
Kudos: 3





	March

It's depressing, how well you know this path.

You could climb this hill backward and blindfolded, and you would always know this earth, this grass, this thinning air. You, with the comforting weight of Shigure Kintoki upon your back, in your fancy suit and fancy shoes that weren't made for climbing countryside hills at all.

You reach the top and are unsurprised to find Xanxus already there.

You watch him for a moment, back turned, his jacket billowing in the breeze. His head is bowed, though not in prayer, _never_ in prayer. You know him too well.

You reach his side. Only then does he raise his head. He does not glance your way. He offers you no greeting and you offer silence in return. He reaches into his jacket, withdraws the flask he's bought for this day. The same gift every year.

He unscrews the cap, lifts it in a toast. "Happy Birthday, Squalo," he says, and takes a drink.

You retrieve your pack of Peace cigarettes. Light one and take a deep drag, pulling smoke into your lungs like bitter salvation. Exhale. "Happy Birthday," you echo. _You fucking selfish bastard,_ you silently add.

The same ritual. The same words. _Eight fucking years._

Funny how Xanxus has taken to calling Squalo by name now that he is dead. Funny how you've stopped saying his name entirely.

Funny how this twisted role reversal isn't funny at all.

Xanxus places the flask against the unmarked stone that is indicative of Squalo's supposed resting place. He'd always had a penchant for high places. The gravestone is nothing but a symbol. He'd had no burial, for there was nothing left of him to bury.

Not even his fucking sword.

You place your cigarette atop the stone. You watch the sun set and pretend it's setting the world aflame. You wish it would take you with it.


End file.
